


Minding the Spiral

by frankie_31



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, but not in detail, it is going to talk about csa, so the tags sound scary but im not gonna talk in detail about any of the underage sex, so this story is about ian dealing with his sexual history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Eventually, the past catches up with everyone. Ian deals with the aftermath of his trauma that is largely ignored. AU after Ian comes back from his Monica trip.





	1. Chapter 1

One day Mickey comes home and every knife they own has been thrown out the window above the kitchen sink. The steak knives, his Bowie knives, switchblades, butterfly knives, pen knives he keeps tucked under the couch are all on the ground. Some stick out at funny angles, sunk into the dirt of the alley. 

He looks closer and his razor is out here too. Scissors. A box opener. 

A pit forms in his stomach and he hesitates at the foot of the stairs, looks up at his porch. The monstrous idea of what he could find in there leaves him stricken with guilt, like thick poison choking him. 

He forces himself up, up the steps, in the door. There’s nothing amiss, the house is quiet. He goes in further, leaving the door open because he’s afraid he won’t be able to stay in the house. 

“Ian,” he rasps out, the call stifled in his throat. He tries again. “Ian.”

There’s no response and Mickey moves further into the house. There’s a stillness in the air that makes him want to run but he keeps going. 

In his bedroom, Ian’s on the floor. He’s cross-legged, arms resting in his lap like he’s a fucking monk. Looks almost like he’s praying.

Mickey’s heart chugs back into motion and he drops to his knees, still in the doorway. He crawls to Ian, reaches out and touches his leg. 

Ian’s eyes are open, vacant and still dripping tears. 

“Ian, what’s going on,” Mickey asks and Ian blinks once. Another well of tears flush out of his eyes and Mickey reaches out with both hands to cup Ian’s face. 

He pulls it up slightly, rubs his thumbs through Ian’s tear tracks. Ian doesn’t look at him, jerks his eyes to the wall behind Mickey. 

“Hey, wanna get in bed?” 

Ian is silent, eyes searching for nothing in the air beyond Mickey. 

“Okay, no bed,” Mickey says and leans in to press a dry rasp of a kiss to Ian’s forehead. Ian shoves him away, more of an afterthought than an act of violence and Mickey sits back on his heels. 

Ian’s feet are a pale white, like fish bellies. Ian must have cut off the circulation in them. 

Mickey stands, goes and closes the front door. Turns on the heater. Grabs a blanket off the couch and carries it back to Ian. He wraps it around Ian’s shoulders, the man doesn’t flinch. 

Mickey sits down beside him and starts unlacing his boots, when he’s done he reaches out to grab Ian’s hand.

“Don’t touch me,” Ian spits, venomous. 

“Fuck me for caring,” Mickey says without heat. “Get on the bed, you mook.”

Ian doesn’t respond and Mickey goes to take a shower. He keeps a can of nails by the bedroom and he sticks them in front of the bedroom door. Ian will have to knock them over if he makes a break for it. 

Mickey leaves the door open while he undressed, only closes the shower curtain enough that it’s not dumping water on the floor. The bedroom door doesn’t move, and he risks washing his hair. When he pokes his head back out, squinting through the water in his eyes, the door is still closed and the can of nails undisturbed. 

When he goes back into the room, towel firmly around his hips, Ian has his legs stretched out in front of him and he’s grimacing. He looks at Mickey, finally, but his eyes aren’t tracking right. They keep slipping off Mickey, down to the floor, then jerking back up. 

“Hey, red,” Mickey says and shucks his towel to yank on boxers. Ian tilts his head up with a wobble, then back down. He tucks his chin against his chest like a child and a sob cracks through his chest. 

“Mickey,” he warbles through his tears and Mickey is on the ground in front of him before he can even finish putting his shirt on. He gathers Ian close, tucks his face against Mickey’s neck and they end up rocking slowly. 

Chicago winter is cold on Mickey’s damp skin especially with his shirt looped around his neck but he isn’t moving until Ian does. 

He hiccuping tears against Mickey, his gangly arms tucked up between them. Mickey kisses his earlobe, hauls Ian a little closer. 

“You’re good, red,” he murmurs against Ian’s skin. “You’re good.”

“No,” Ian chokes and he shakes his head. “I’m gross. I’m so fucking disgusting.”

“Hey, hey,” Mickey says. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I am,” Ian says and he pushes Mickey back to look in his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about all the nasty shit I’ve done.”

“You can’t change it,” Mickey says right back. “You can’t change it so you have to move on. What happened isn’t who you are.”

“What the fuck does that mean? It’s my skin, it’s my mouth,” Ian’s not crying but his voice is dry and brittle. “It’s my body that all of that happened with.”

“Ian,” Mickey says and he can’t find the right words to soothe Ian. 

“I-I—oh, fuck,” Ian keens and his chest heaves as he tries to draw in a breath. 

“Breathe,” Mickey snaps. He can feel his own throat aching and he stamps down the urge to cry. “Breathe. In and out.”

Ian’s stuttering in breath after breath but he can’t get any out and Mickey’s rubbing his chest and neck, intoning softly. 

“In and out, red,” Mickey says as calmly as he can against the rabbit-thumping of his heart and his he urge to punch his fists into the drywall behind Ian. “Keep going.”

Eventually, Ian settles and he’s sucking in shallow breaths and pushing them out. Mickey keeps talking until Ian leans his head back against the wall. 

“What happened?” 

“Someone sent me—,” Ian falters and scrubs a hand over his face. “The video I made. The porn.”

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey says and he sits back. “Who? I’m gonna rip their fucking lungs out.”

“I think it was the guy who p—paid me,” Ian says. He curls forward, into Mickey’s chest. “I watched it all. It’s—oh, fuck. It’s so fucked up.”

“Ian,” Mickey says helplessly and he clings to Ian. “Ian, we can get it taken down.”

“It already has so many views,” Ian says into Mickey’s chest. “So many people saw it. I can’t believe how bad it is.”

“Ian,” Mickey says again. 

“There are more guys than I remembered,” Ian says softly and he pushes closer to Mickey. The words come out rushed, like a drip he can’t contain. “There were two. I didn’t remember half the shit. T-they really hurt me. I was just laughing the entire time. What the fuck was wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Mickey says fiercely.

“And I kissed them both. At the end. Like it was just a normal fuck,” Ian’s breath is hot against his chest. “I kissed them after they did that to me.”

“I’m gonna kill them,” Mickey says, a promise and Ian shakes his head. “I’m gonna kill them.”

“No,” Ian says, his voice frail and crackly. “I just wanna forget it again. I just wanna forget it.”

“Okay,” Mickey says into Ian’s hair, fantasies of blood and flashing silver blades in his head. “Whatever you want, red.”

“How can you touch me?” Ian asks and he pushes his hands into Mickey’s chest. They’re freezing against his bare ribs and Mickey’s reaches to press his over Ian’s. 

Mickey sits back on his heels again and looks at Ian. He’s pale, the skin around his eyes is blotchy and rashed. His gaze is trained on Mickey’s hands over his own, the irises almost glowing against the redness of his eyes. 

“I love you, stupid,” Mickey says and maybe that’s the wrong thing but it shocks a laugh out of Ian. “I love you so much I want to yell it on the fuckin’ rooftops. Any—any blood on your hands is blood on mine.”

“But—,” Ian starts and Mickey cuts him off. 

“No but’s,” he says and he lifts Ian’s hands up to press them against his face. “I want you. Even the fucked up parts.”

“You’re a poet, Mick,” Ian says and almost laughs again. He turns his hands so his palms are against Mickey’s cheeks. “I don’t think you’re supposed to call me fucked up.”

“But you are,” Mickey says and Ian tilts his head, fondness tinging the sorrow in his face. “And so am I. I’ve crippled people, Ian. For life. That’s more fucked than some old skeeves throwing a bone in you. I’ve buried bodies, Ian.”

“Mickey,” Ian says and he pulls Mickey in to kiss him once, softly. 

“Ian, what those douchebags did was shit. It was shit. But it happened,” Mickey leans down to look Ian in the eye. “It happened. There’s no time machine. There’s no magic wand to make it go away. All you can do it keep going.”

“You are a poet,” Ian says and he presses his forehead to Mickey’s. “My own South Side Hemingway.”

“Love you,” Mickey says gruffly, fingers rubbing over Ian’s knuckles. 

“I love you,” Ian says back, quieter but just as steady. 

“Can we get off the fucking floor now,” Mickey asks and he stands. He reaches down to help Ian up, who stands on shaky legs. Ian feels like a newborn colt, raw and unsteady. 

“I’ll make dinner,” Ian offers and Mickey snorts. 

“I gotta go get all our fuckin’ knives outta the alley then,” he says and slants a look at Ian. “You gonna be square with them in the house?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be. But I’m okay now.”

Mickey just nods, doesn’t say anything. He kisses Ian again, chastely, and Ian pulls him in for a hug. 

Mickey returns it easily enough, let’s Ian drape over him like a wet blanket. He sighs a long breath, squeezes Ian tight. 

“I’m putting on pants and then I’m ordering pizza,” Mickey says when they part. “Fuck the knives.” 

“Fuck the knives,” Ian echoes with a smile and he goes to wash his face. 

When he gets back out, Mickey’s sprawled on the couch and ordering a few pie’s. Ian folds himself onto the couch beside him, tucks his cold toes under Mickey’s thigh. 

He puts on some bullshit movie, the first one he finds and they watch it in tired quiet until the pizza arrives. 

Mandy rattles in through the door not long after, the hard soles of her boots clatter up the stairs.

“Why are all of our knives in the fucking alley?”

“Fuck the knives,” Mickey says without looking away from the tv and Ian laughs a little. 

“You’re so weird,” Mandy sneers but she kicks out of her boots and flops onto an armchair near them. “Give me the remote, fucker.”

Mickey does, rolling his eyes, and snags another slice of pizza. Mandy does too, but first she puts the tv on some home improvement show.

***

 

A few weeks later, Mandy and Ian are smoking weed on the bleachers by the football field. They re-enrolled together after Ian got back from his time with Monica. She’s on her back, one arm dangling between the seats and the other delicately holding a joint to her lips. Ian’s on the next step down, turned to face her with his elbows crossed and resting on his knees.

“Mandy,” Ian starts but isn’t sure how to put words to his feelings. 

“Spit it out, babe,” she says and turns her head to look at him. Her glossy hair slides down like a curtain of oil and he reaches out to grab a lock. 

“Give me that,” he says and plucks the joint from her fingers. He sucks in for a long time, exhales slowly between his teeth. “I feel gross all the time. I don’t want to take showers or brush my teeth. I barely change my clothes. I can’t fucking eat.”

“After you saw the video?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says and rubs a hand over his face. “It’s like remembering some of that shit made me remember a lot more shit. I just lay in bed and think about it. Every gross thing.”

“Yeah,” Mandy nods and puts an arm behind her head. “Part of my...part of the agreement for coming back to school was that I’d meet with the counselor. But she said that it was, like, a thing. For people who’ve been hurt like us. To want to be undesirable.”

“Hurt like us,” Ian repeats. “Mandy, I wasn’t hurt like you.”

“Yeah, you were. Kash just wasn’t related to you,” Mandy says and she takes the joint back. “He was still a creepy fuck.”

“I loved Kash,” Ian tells her, feeling small and unsure. “We were together.”

“Ian, how old were you the first time?”

“I—I was 13,” he says and saying it out loud makes him feel like a plinko ball, rattling down a chute. “Fuck.”

“13. Me too,” she says simply. “Kash was a creepy fuck.”

“But I didn’t feel that way,” Ian says and she shrugs. 

“Just means he was good at what he was doing,” Mandy tells him, joint balances on her bottom lip and she reaches over to put a hand in his. “Normal men—normal grown men don’t fuck 13 year olds.”

He squeezes her hand, leans down to press his forehead to it. He didn’t feel like a victim.

“And, since we’re talking about it,” she says and sits up. “People can’t consent if they’re drunk, Ian. Or manic. The video, the assholes at the club. They took advantage of you.”

“Mandy,” Ian says, overwhelmed, and she visibly softens. 

“Sorry,” she says. “Shit, sorry. I’m such a loudmouth.”

Ian feels the urge to comfort her but he can’t make his mouth work. He swallows against the panic beating in his chest and looks over at her. 

“That’s not me,” he tells her, suddenly enraged. “You don’t get to put that on me.”

He stands, yanks his hand away from her and pulls his backpack on. 

“Fuck you,” he spits. “I’m not a fucking rape victim. I didn’t get raped. I fucked guys. It’s different. I fucked Kash. I fucked all those guys.”

“Whatever,” Mandy says. “Sorry.” 

“Why would you say that?”

“I’m sorry. Okay? I am,” she says and crosses her spindly arms around herself. “I was wrong.” 

He sits back down and they finish the joint in silence. He forces himself not to think about what she said. 

But once he’s in bed with Mickey, awake at four a.m. and staring at the ceiling, the thought creeps back in. 

He mouths it silently, I’m a rape victim. 

It feels wrong in the curve of his lips, the soft exhale that pushes it out of his body. He mouths it again. 

“The fuck are you doing,” Mickey says beside him, slurred by sleep. Ian’s heart jumps and his palms feel sweaty. “Are you talkin’ to yourself?”

“I’m fine,” Ian says back and leans over to pet Mickey’s belly. “Go back to sleep.”

Mickey’s already snoring by the time Ian’s heart settles again and he curls into him. He presses his cheek to Mickey’s bare shoulder and reaches further over to stick his hand into Mickey’s armpit. He squeezes a sigh out of Mickey and blinks his eyelashes against Mickey’s skin. 

Sleep takes him in between blinks. 

***

He’s in his therapist’s office. He’s been there for the better part of an hour. He likes his therapist enough. He’s really just supposed to see her for med-checks but he asked if he could come in early and she said yes. Her name is Morgan. She’s portuguese, he thinks, and she wears sandals even in winter. He thinks that’s stupid. 

There’s a little turtle painted on her big toenails. She flexes her toes and he realizes he’s just frowning at her feet in silence. 

“Ian,” she says and reaches down to wiggle her fingers in his line of sight. “You seem distant.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, reflexively, and leans back to meet her eyes. “I--My friend said something to me. I want to know what you think.”

“Okay,” she says and spreads her hands. “Fire away.”

“Do you think--What makes someone a rape victim?”

“Well,” she says softly and he can see her weighing her words. “I would say a rape victim is someone who has had sexual abuse happen to them.” 

“But what if the person said yes? What if they said they--they loved the person?” 

“Not all sexual abuse is violent. Sometimes, an abuser manipulates the victim. Sometimes, the victim is lead to believe they initiated the abuse,” Morgan says and folds her hands over her stomach. “Does that answer your question?”

“Okay,” Ian starts and he grabs a throw pillow to cling to his chest. “So, when I was 13. I started working at a convenience store.”

He looks at her, wondering if she’ll fill in the blanks. She says nothing, just nods at him. 

“I started working with a man. He was older, married,” Ian says. The pillow has tassels and he twists them around his finger. “I loved Kash. We were together, he wasn’t abusing me.”

“I don’t doubt that you loved Kash,” Morgan says and she writes something down. “Do you feel like your relationship was balanced? Did you share equal power?”

“Yes,” Ian says, right away. “We bought each other presents. I was--uh. I was on top.” 

“Okay, so he had no foot up on you?”

“I mean, he was my boss. But my sister dated her boss a bunch of times,” Ian says. 

“And in those relationships--your sister’s--they were an equal power exchange?”

“No,” Ian huffs. “One guy. He fired her because she cheated on him.” 

“Would Kash have fired you if you cheated on him?”

“No,” Ian says. “I did, in the end. I started fucking around with my current boyfriend.” 

“You still work there now?”

“Yeah. Kash ran away. I help his wife out at the store,” Ian says and he watches his fingertip turn white above the tassel of the pillow. 

“Ian, let me ask you a different question. If it were the other way around--with you as the married store owner--would you engage in a relationship with a 13 year old?”

“No,” Ian says with fervor. “Of course not.”

She lets that settle into the room. Ian’s eyes burn a little and he closes them, leans his head back. He hears her write something down and he exhales slowly. 

“I was mature,” he says into the silent room. “I was grown for my age.”

“How did you know that? What made you more mature than other 13 year olds?”

“Kash let me run the store, run the inventory. I was in charge of a lot there,” Ian says and something sharp and mean picks at his brain. 

“To clarify, Kash’s actions made you mature. Putting you in charge of aspects of the store,” Morgan says and Ian frowns at her. 

“I feel like you’re twisting my words,” he tells her. “Kash could tell I was mature. He didn’t trick me into it.”

“Okay,” Morgan says and she caps her pen. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to twist your words.” 

“I loved Kash. He loved me. We were together.” 

“Ian, I want you to consider Kash’s motivations in becoming intimate with a 13 year old.”

“He wasn’t straight,” Ian says. “He was married but he was gay. He didn’t love her but he had to stay with her.” 

“Sure,” Morgan agrees. “But why did he pick you? Why then?”

“I don’t know,” Ian snaps and Morgan raises her eyebrows. “Sorry.”

“You don’t owe me an apology,” she says and taps her pen against her mouth for a moment. “Ian, I don’t want us to push this too hard.”

“Do you think Kash raped me? I think you do,” Ian says and he keeps his eyes on his pillow. 

“I’m not the person to decide that, Ian. All I can do is listen to the facts and help you towards an answer you agree with. I’m the tour guide, but it’s your story.” 

“I need you to tell me,” Ian says softly and Morgan makes a soft noise. 

“Let me ask you this. What do you think?”

“I think….I think I wouldn’t fuck a thirteen year old. I don’t think I could. Deb’s 14. I’d beat down any married man that tried to touch her,” he says. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know, Ian,” she says. “You can be unsure. There’s no pop quiz.” 

“My time’s almost up,” Ian says and she looks over at the clock. There’s around five minutes left. 

“Do you want to stop here?”

“Yes,” he says and stands. “I need to go.” 

“Okay,” she says and stands as well. “I think we can keep your medication as-is. But I’d like to see you next week.”

“Okay,” Ian says and watches her cross to her desk. There’s a little tray of business cards and she writes something on the back of one. 

“I want you to call me if you need me. We talked about something hard today,” she holds out the card and he looks at her neat, round writing on it. Cell- (312)555-8743. 

“I will,” he says and sticks the card in his pocket. 

Her receptionist sets him up with another appointment. He leaves as quickly as he can, stops and buys a .40 from a corner store on the way home. 

He ends up going to his own home, not the Milkovich's. It’s empty, the kids are at school and Fiona is at work. He lays on the couch, starts drinking. 

If Kash did abuse him, that means Ned did too. He wonders what to google, what links could guide him through this. The thought makes him snort.

Did Kash take advantage of him? Could he have? Deb’s so young, he can see it happening to her. Some older guy, holding her close and stealing kisses. She’s a lamb for slaughter, he thinks bitterly. 

Was he? 

He feels impossibly old in his skin. Ancient in comparison to Deb’s naivety, but he must have been innocent once. The word tastes like ash. When did he stop being innocent? The first time Kash kissed him? The first time they orgasmed together? Was he still innocent when he messed around with Roger?

“Innocence is a bullshit concept,” he says and realizes he’s kinda drunk. He sits up, remembering where he is and looks around. There’s a framed picture of himself and he stumbles across the room to look at it. 

It’s him and Lip, arms around each other. Lip’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and Ian’s trying to grab it. He’s pretty sure this was taken around the time he started working at Kash and Grab. 

He remembers how mad Lip was. When he found out. 

“Ian,” a voice says behind him, cheerful and surprised. “How’s it going?”

It’s Fiona and she sheds her winter jacket, crosses to hug him. 

“Hey, Fi,” he says and her eyebrows shoot up at the slur in his voice. 

“Hitting the bottle already, huh? It’s like two,” she says but she doesn’t sound mad. “Come on. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“What a good idea,” he says and follows her into the kitchen. He sits on a stool, props his head in his hands and looks at her. She’s in thick socks, nose pink from the cold and full of tightly coiled energy. 

“How are you?” She asks and Ian hears the unspoken question. How are the meds working?

“I’m okay,” he says, as close to honest as he can be. “School’s going good. I should graduate on time.”

“That’s great,” she answers with a big smile and he smiles back at her. “Mandy’s back in school too?”

“Yeah,” he says and Mandy’s mention brings back his earlier thoughts. “Fi, what did you think when you found out about Lloyd?”

She pauses, her back to him and he watches her force her shoulders to relax. 

“I wanted to kill him,” she says and looks back at him. “I wanted to beat him to death with his shoes.” 

“I was with Kash,” he says with purpose. Watches her face. “Before him.” 

“Before Lloyd?”

“Yeah,” he says and her brows pinch. 

“What does ‘with’ mean?”

“We fucked,” he says brusquely and she flinches. “All the time.”

“When--when did it start?”

“When I started working there,” he tells her and she turns all the way around, a piece of bologna in her hands still. “Maybe a few months after.”

“Ian,” she says and takes an aborted step towards him. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“I loved him,” Ian says and it feels different now then it did with Morgan. More stale. “We loved each other.”

“No,” Fiona says in a thick voice. “No. You didn’t.”

“Then--then what? We were together,” he says and waits for her to answer it. To condemn Kash and him.

“You weren’t together. He was a sick fuck who was abusing you, Ian,” she says with a sorrow-thickened voice and he sits up on the stool. 

He feels sick to his stomach, his skin feels hot. She’s still holding the bologna. 

“Ian, I didn’t know. I would have stopped him,” she says and her eyes are clotted with unshed tears. “I would have.”

“It’s okay,” he says dully and tries not to puke. “It’s okay.” 

Lip’s coming in through the back door now, rubbing his hands together roughly. 

“Cold as fuck,” Lip says and claps his hand on Ian’s back. “How’s life with the Milkovich Two?”

“S’good,” Ian says and Fiona presses a fist to her mouth in front of him, eyes shiny and bright. 

“What the fuck did I walk in on?”

“Nothin’--”

“It’s fine--”

Fiona and Ian say over each other and Lip makes a face at them both. 

“Ian’s drunk at two-thirty and you’re crying,” Lip says and Fiona sucks in a shaky breath. 

“Did you know about Kash? Him and Ian?” 

Lip immediately looks cagey and he turns to frown at Ian. 

“You did,” Fiona says and throws the bologna at him. It slaps against his parka and he looks down at it.

“Don’t throw shit at me,” Lip says and Fiona turns back to the sandwich, continues making it in jerky movements. 

There’s a quiet moment while Lip throws the bologna away and toes off his shoes. He’s wearing thick socks to match Fiona’s and Ian absently wonders who stole from who. 

“Why the fuck are we talking about Kash? He’s been gone for awhile now,” Lip says and Ian shrugs. 

“I’m--,” Ian feels foolish. Why does it matter what he calls himself? Who cares if Mandy’s right or wrong. “Just talking.”

Fiona scoffs, turning and shoving a plate at him. He eats the sandwich mechanically and Fiona disappears up the stairs. She comes back down a split second later and hugs Ian tightly, kisses his temple. 

“Love you, spud,” she says softly and goes back up. 

Lip comes around the counter to lean on it, looks at Ian through tired eyes. 

“Just talking? About the pedohile you worked for?”

“Pedophile,” Ian says, testing the weight of the word. “So, what? I’m his victim?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Lip says and reaches out for the sandwich. He takes a messy bite and sets it back on Ian’s plate. He swallows noisily. “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says, miserable. “I don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” Lip says and Ian groans. 

“I’m leaving,” he says and stands up. He feels a lot more sober now. “Tell Fi bye for me.”

“Later,” Lips says and grabs Ian’s sandwich. He takes a bite as Ian walks out the door. 

***

He goes home. Really home. Mandy’s inside, sideways in the armchair with her feet hanging in the walkway. Mickey’s shoes are gone so he must not be back yet. He sits down on the floor by Mandy and starts to take off his shoes. 

“Hey,” she says. “You drunk?”

“Not really,” he answers and throws his shoes toward the door. “Not anymore.”

“Don’t let Mick catch you,” she says and he leans his head back against the chair. She slides her fingers through his hair, leaning over so her curtain of hair swings against his head. “He’s gonna be out late.”

“It’s really cluttered in here,” he says and she looks down at him. 

“So?”

“Let’s clean.”

“Kay.”

And they do. Ian’s pushes them further and further, scrubbing floorboards and hanging a poster over a hole in the wall. He finds a mop behind the fridge and cleans the cracked linoleum, counting the squares as he goes. Mandy keeps up with him, organizes the cupboards and throws out lonely tupperware lids. 

They have the front of the house as clean as it can be by the time Mickey gets home and he pauses in the doorway, jacket half-shrugged down his arms. 

“We have a vacuum? It looks good,” he says and hangs his jacket on the hooks Mandy screwed in the wall a half hour ago. 

“Borrowed it from Vee,” Ian says and glides up to Mickey to kiss him. The kiss deepens and Mickey looks a little dazed when Ian pulls back. 

“Looks good,” he says again and kicks off his boots. “You guys did good.”

“Oh, thanks, mister,” Mandy says in a high-pitched sarcastic voice. Ian laughs at that, it makes him think of the Powerpuff Girls. Mandy’s mouth quirks a little and he laughs again. 

“You like it? I’m doing the bathroom next,” Ian says, starting to walk into the back of the house and Mickey grabs him around the waist and pulls him close. 

“Hey,” Mickey says and presses his forehead to Ian’s. “It’s two in the morning, red. We’re going to bed.”

“Oh,” he says and looks at Mandy. She looks exhausted, he realizes. They’ve been cleaning for almost eight hours. “Damn, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says and he can tell she wants to ask him if he is too. 

“I’m good,” he says. “Maybe a little on the upswing. I don’t know.”

“Come take a shower with me,” Mickey says and Ian’s brain swings to focus on him like the scoop of a crane. 

“Have fun,” Mandy says and escapes to her room. Ian wonders if he was holding her hostage.

“Ian,” Mickey says and nudges him towards the bathroom. “Shower time. You stink.”

“I do not,” Ian protests with a laugh and Mickey corrals him into the bathroom. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Mickey doesn’t answer, just leans up to kiss him and pulls his shirt up over his head. Ian matches his motions and soon they’re in the bathroom, just kissing. Ian reaches in to turn on the shower and Mickey follows his lips as the move, eyes closed. Ian reaches up to pet his hands through Mickey’s hair, it’s tacky with pomade but he doesn’t mind. 

The shower is nice, they kiss all through it. Soap each other up, turning under the spray so one of them isn’t out in the cold air for too long. 

In the bedroom, Ian pushes a damp Mickey back on to the bed. Mickey leans up on his elbows and grins at him with sharp teeth in the dark. 

“How far we going, tonight?”

“Far as I can,” Ian says and fetches the lube and a condom. “Turn over, hot stuff.” 

Mickey does, smiling. The milky expanse of his back is stark in the din of their bedroom. Ian crawls up so he’s between Mickey’s legs on the bed and strokes a hand down the line of his spine. Mickey’s flesh is soft, right on the line of stocky and Ian leans down to bite the little bit of plumpness over his hip. 

Mickey makes a happy noise and Ian reaches between his legs, feels him hard already. He loves him. God, he loves him. 

“I love you,” he says out loud and Mickey nods his head. 

“No shit,” he says. “Get in me.”

“Say it back,” Ian teases and drips lube on to his fingers. “Come on.”

“I love you, you pinocchio lookin’ motherfucker,” Mickey says and Ian leans his forehead on the knobs of his spine, huffs a laugh. “I love you. I love you. Come on.”

“Patience, young grasshopper,” Ian says and feeds a finger into him with a slow, steady press. Mickey sighs into it, going boneless and happy. 

It doesn’t take long to get Mickey slicked up and Ian braces against his back, ready to push in when some little button in his brain flips. Flashes of Kash’s back superimpose over Mickey’s, flashes of Lloyd and a litany of other men. He pulls back with a sharp noise, chest tightening like a vise. 

“Ian,” Mickey says and he’s up on his feet immediately. “Ian, whats wrong?”

“I can’t--I can’t tonight,” he says and reaches out to grab Mickey. “I can’t.”

Mickey lets Ian cling to him, rubs his hands up and down his back. 

“Okay, okay,” Mickey says and kisses Ian’s shoulder. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Ian can’t speak, just shakes his head against Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Alright—fuckin’ okay. Come on,” Mickey says and pushes Ian onto the bed. “Come on.”

Ian goes easily enough, let’s Mickey shove him under the blanket and crawl over him. Mickey punches the pillow a few times then settles on to it.

He reaches out and slings an arm over Ian, yanks him in close. 

“What’s going on?”

“Just going through some shit,” Ian says and rubs his face on Mickey’s arm. “I’ll be okay.”

“Alright,” Mickey says after a pause. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Ian says and tries to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian’s sitting in his therapist’s waiting room, heel balanced on the seat and knee pulled up to his chest. Some kids movie is playing on the tv and he tries to focus on it, his eyes slide off it each time though. 

“Gallagher,” a voice calls to his right and he looks over to see Morgan. She’s wearing sandals again, Ian notes dully and it takes him a moment to stand. 

“Hi,” he says and she smiles at him. 

“We’re in the blue room today,” she says and he trods into the back of the building. The blue room has a wicker chair and a big blue loveseat in it. The decorations are all blue and the tissue holder is a dolphin, twisted back on itself. 

They sit in a companionable quiet, Ian toes off his shoes and curls his feet up on the couch, wraps his arms around his shins. 

“How are you? I was thinking about our discussion last week. I wanted to know how you’ve been since that,” Morgan says and Ian’s mouth quirks on its own. 

“I think Kash did something wrong,” he says and she nods a little. “And some of the other men. There was another, after Kash. When we met, I didn’t know who he was. He lied actually. Said his name was different than it was. But it t-turned out--.”

She’s patient, quiet but obviously waiting for him to continue. 

“He was my sister’s boyfriend’s dad. That’s a mouthful,” Ian chuckles somewhat bitterly and Morgan cracks a small smile. “He was at our house once. Drunk. Crawled into my brother’s bed instead of mine. I don’t think I understood how fucked up it was until I saw how everyone reacted when he was pushing up on Lip.”

“It gave you an outside perspective,” Morgan offers and Ian nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly. I realized that most people didn’t fuck around with people as old as their dad.”

“What happened next?”

“Christ,” Ian says and buries his face in his knees. “My boyfriend, Mickey. I’ve mentioned him?”

“Yes,” she says and he looks up at her. His eyes sting a little. 

“We had our first kiss right after that. Everything was going amazing. His dad came home early. Beat the shit out of Mickey. Made him--fuck.”

She offers him the stupid dolphin tissue holder and he realizes he’s crying a little. 

“Thanks. Mickey’s dad made him fuck a hooker. In front of me. He had a gun on us both.”

“Ian, I’m so sorry,” she says and he avoids her eyes. In his peripheral, he can see that her face is screwed up. 

“It’s over now. But then, she got pregnant. They got married. I left for the Army. I feel like it was the trigger—or the start— of my disorder,” he says and she looks as sad as he feels. 

“That’s a lot to happen in the start of a relationship,” she says and Ian nods. “Can I ask a few questions?”

“Yeah,” Ian answers and she picks up her pen. 

“Mickey’s..the woman he married. How do you refer to her?”

“Svetlana. Svet. And the baby is Yevgeny,” Ian says and she nods, writes something down.

“Okay. One thing I remember from our earlier meetings--you had taken a baby. Was that Yevgeny?”

“Yes,” he says and feels a pooling of guilt in his stomach. “It was Yev.”

“After they married. Mickey and Svetlana. Were you close to Mickey at this point?”

“Yes. Kinda,” Ian shrugs. “I was working at a few clubs. He ended up finding me. I hadn’t been home in a long time. He made me come home. Svet hated my guts. She threatened to beat my brains in with a hammer.” 

“How is your relationship with her now?”

“We’re okay. We were close before I took Yev. We were like a weird, little family. She’s still friendly. Nice enough. But I broke her trust,” Ian’s not crying anymore. 

“So, you went to the Army. Left the Army. Started working at the clubs. Mickey brought you home. You were having a manic episode through all of this, correct?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “ And it kept going for a while. I was really fucking mean to Mickey though.”

“Do you want to discuss that?”

“No,” Ian says. “Yes. Yeah.” 

“Okay, what made you say that you were mean to Mickey?”

“I knew Mickey loved me. He wouldn’t say it--couldn’t, maybe. But I knew he’d do anything for me. Told him we could be together if he gave me blow jobs whenever I wanted,” Ian says and rubs his wrist over his eyes. They itch. “I made him come out.”

“Made him,” she parrots. “What did you do to make him?”

“Said I was done if he didn’t. I knew his dad would try to kill him again. Didn’t care,” Ian stares at a painting behind Morgan’s head. 

“Ian, I don’t want to dismiss your feelings. But you weren’t thinking with a clear mind. Some professionals would even liken a manic episode to being under the influence,” Morgan says and she sets her pen down. “I don’t want to say you’re wrong. However, I’d like you to consider your mental state.”

“Does that make it okay? Does it change the fact that I manipulated him? I don’t think it does,” Ian argues back.

“I don’t want to take weight away from your feelings,” Morgan says. “But please, consider it.”

“His dad tried to kill him,” Ian continues in lieu of trying to prove how terrible he is to her.

“After he came out?”

“Yes,” Ian says. “And I jumped in. We all got cuffed when the cops came. But the arresting officer--he was gay. He let us off. And Terry had broken parole by fighting so he went back to jail. He’s still in prison.”

“How was Mickey after that night? Was he relieved?”

“I don’t remember,” Ian says, miserable. “I had a depressive episode almost right away. When I came back up, it had been a few weeks. We never talked about it.”

“Your relationship has been through a lot,” she says simply. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Ian snorts. “Just gets worse.”

“I’d like to do a well-check with you,” Morgan says. “We’re delving into some very emotional topics. I feel that there is a lot to unpack here and I don’t want to rush it. I don’t want to overtax you.”

She goes over a general checklist --his diet, his sleeping, his energy, his concentration-- and he is feeling okay. He’s surprised, almost. 

She tells him about a journaling technique, he says he’ll do it and she even produces a journal for him to take home. The session winds down after that, he leaves feeling better. 

Like he’s dusted off some part of himself, like he’s got more clarity. 

***

He brings Mickey lunch at the garage he’s started working at and they eat it on a bench around back. He watched Mickey unwrap his sandwich, making happy noises all the while. 

“Are you--are you glad you came out?”

“Why are you asking dumb questions? ‘Course I am,” Mickey says and looks cagey. Talking about his feelings always makes Mickey irritable. 

“Would you have done it if I didn’t make you?” 

“Shit, I don’t know,” Mickey says and he’s just frowning now. “Why are you ruining my sandwich with this? Did your shrink say something?”

“No,” Ian says and pokes at his own meal. “I just don’t how good I am for you.”

“What does that mean? Ian, I--,” Mickey puts down his sandwich and leans towards Ian. “Ian, I love you. You’re good for me.”

“I’m not,” Ian laughs bitterly. “I’m not good for you. You wouldn’t be married if it wasn’t for me. You wouldn’t have Yev--”

“I love Yev. Don’t say that shit,” Mickey says. “Ian. I’m happy. I’m happy with you. I’m happy with Yev. Hell, I even like Svet. Don’t say shit like that.” 

Ian’s standing before he knows what’s happening, arms crossed tightly around himself. Mickey doesn’t look mad anymore, he’s starting to look scared. 

“I’m not good for you,” Ian says and he turns away so he doesn’t have to look at Mickey. “I don’t think we should do this.”

“Do what?” 

“This. Be together,” Ian says and he ignores the pain in his throat. 

“I love you, you stupid motherfucker,” Mickey says and Ian feels his hand on his shoulder. “You aren’t the only person who gets to decide shit in this relationship.”

“I’m too much,” Ian says, exasperated. “I’m always going to be too much. I’m too fucked up.”

“You think I’m not? I’m as fucked as you,” Mickey says and he’s pulling Ian’s shoulder, trying to turn him. “Ian, look at me.”

“No,” Ian says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not good enough. I’m not enough. You--you deserve better.”

“I want you--Ian, look at me,” Mickey’s in front of him now, but Ian’s got his chin tucked into his jacket and his eyes closed. “You don’t get to dump me with your fucking eyes closed.”

“I’m not dumping you,” Ian snaps, eyes opening, and Mickey’s face is screwed up like he’s in pain. “I’m letting you go.”

“Oh, fuck off. Don’t you do this to me,” Mickey says. His voice is ragged and Ian can see tears glossing over his eyes. “Don’t you do this to me like it’s a fucking favor.”

“It is a favor,” Ian says helplessly and he pushes his hands against Mickey’s chest. “You can find someone good.”

“Don’t,” Mickey croaks and Ian’s going to cry at the face he’s making. “Don’t. Ian, don’t.”

“I’m done,” Ian says and he’s bawling like a baby. “I’m out. J-just move on.”

“Where is this coming from? I did my work. I did the work,” Mickey’s yelling now, hands tight on Ian’s upper arms. He’s not crying like Ian but the skin around his eyes is blotchy and red. “Haven’t I been through enough? How can you do this? We’re making it. Ian, just take it back.”

“No,” Ian chokes out and he backs away. “Let me go.”

“Ian,” Mickey says and a tight voice but he lets go. “Ian, please. Take it back.”

“You’re going to be happier,” Ian says and nods jerkily. “You are. I just gotta get out of the way.” 

He turns then, stalks away as fast as he can. He hears Mickey swear behind him, loud and harsh and Ian jumps when his unwrapped sandwich bursts open on the sidewalk next to him. He breaks into a jog and forces himself not to look back. 

***  
This time, Debbie finds him on the couch. He’s not drunk this time, but he is sniffling into a throw pillow. He’s laid down, turned to face the back of the couch. She sits on the couch arm above him, one foot on either side of his head and reaches down to pet his head. 

“What’s wrong, Ian?” 

“Me and Mick broke up,” he says and a fresh hiccup of tears wracks through him. He hugs her leg to his face and she bends in half to hug him as best as she can. 

“Why? You guys were like Southside Troy and Gabriella,” she says and Ian snorts. 

“He’s better off without all my shit,” he tells her, trying to believe it. “We’re better off without this.”

“Ian,” she says softly and he thinks about Mickey’s face. “Ian, you aren’t.”

“None of you even liked Mickey,” he says and Debbie shakes her head. 

“He loves you so much,” Debbie tells him and he tries to imagine Debbie and Mickey interacting, realizes that they must have. “He really, really loves you. All that crap with Sammi. Did he ever tell you about it?”

“Not really,” Ian says and watches her put her hair up in a bun from the corner of his eye. “I was having a depressive episode through the whole court process.

“After she turned you in, he was so pissed,” she says. “So was I. We were going to pull her teeth out.”

“Deb,” he says, shocked. 

“We were,” she says and shrugs. “I’m glad we didn’t now. But she did an evil thing. And we wanted her to suffer.”

“What happened?”

“We roofied her,” Deb says. “Gave her too much. Stuck her in her stupid storage unit. Then she got out somehow and tried to kill Mickey. Luckily, there was no evidence that we did anything so none of us got in trouble. That’s, like, the only good thing about it all. Her getting put away.”

“Jesus,” Ian says and sits up on the couch. Deb slides down to sit beside him and rests her head on his shoulder. “Please, don’t torture anyone ever again.”

“No promises,” Debbie says with a tiny smile. “But anyways. He was so good while you were in and out of the hospital and the military custody. He just kept trying to make stuff okay for you. He really wanted to be with you. Even when you were sucker punching him in the baseball diamond.”

“He told you about that,” Ian says with a wince. 

“Yeah, we talked a lot after you got arrested,” Deb says. “He wasn’t even mad about that, Ian. He was just sad. He just wants to be with you. Did you guys break up or did you dump him?”

“It’s for his own good,” Ian says. He feels like there’s a veneer over his emotions. A shiny gloss of surety over a pit of doubt. 

“If you think for one second he’s not just gonna be sad and drunk until you come back to him, you’re nuts,” she says. “Go fix it.”

“No,” Ian says and Debbie scoffs. “I’m helping him.”

“No, you’re hurting yourself and Mickey and you’re wrong,” she reaches over and grabs his hand. Her voice breaks when she speaks again. “Ian, it’s hard to find someone who loves you the right way. It’s really hard. You can’t throw it away.”

“Deb,” he says with feeling and he looks at her. “Why are you so sad?”

“I messed up,” she says and she’s crying now. “I did something really stupid. And now, I have to do the right thing. But I messed up.” 

“Debbie, what are you talking about?”

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers and Ian’s eyes flutter closed. He sucks in a deep breath and forces them open again. “And I picked someone stupid. And now I’m alone.”

“Deb,” he says softly and reaches over to pull her close. “Oh, Deb.”

She really cries then, tipped into his lap with her shoulders shaking. He squeezes her tight, draped over her and imagines he can protect her even if it’s just for right now. They stay there for a long time, after her sobs turn to snuffles and his shoulders ache. Ian feels selfish then, he’s just sad. Debbie’s up against something insurmountable.

“What are we doing about it?”

“We...we are going to not talk about it until I can’t hide it,” Deb says and she huffs a sad laugh. “Just like Shailene Woodley in that show.”

“That ended terrible for her,” Ian laughs and squeezes her tight. “I only know shit about pregnancy because of Svet. But I know there’s vitamins and stuff you have to take. Are you doing anything like that or are you still in panic mode?”

“Panic mode,” she says softly and sits up. “But we can be grown ups together. We can tell the family. And you’re gonna go fix shit with Mickey. And it’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Ian says and rubs his hand over her shoulder. He can stuff his issues for Deb. 

***

Telling the family is a little too telenovela for him. Fiona rages and Deb cries. Carl doesn’t seem to care but he does unfurl a giant wad of money and peel a few bills off ‘for baby shit’. Lip isn’t silent but he does give Deb a big hug at the end of the discussion. 

Later, Deb’s showering and Lip’s back at school and Carl and his giant friend are off doing something Ian has no interest in knowing. 

Fiona is at the table, head in her hands and Ian sets to making them coffee. He shouldn’t really drink it, but it’s this or a sixer of Old Style. 

She looks up at him through watery eyes when he clunks the mug down before her and she thanks him softly. 

“She can’t keep it,” Fiona says and Ian sighs into his coffee mug. “She just can’t.”

“Fi, she’s a Gallagher,” he says and she snorts. “You have as much a chance of talking sense into a tree stump.”

“You agree with me? About the abortion,” Fi says and she sounds so small and tired. 

“I don’t know. I can’t make that choice,” Ian says and he rests his chin on his hand. “I know that it would make life easier. I know I love her a lot and I’m sad this happened.”

“Yeah,” Fiona says and takes a little drink of her coffee. “God, I wish I’d seen it coming.” 

“This entire year sucks,” Ian says and she nods, a wry smile on her face. 

“This entire year sucks ass,” she says and slants a look at him. “How are you? With the Kash stuff?”

“Don’t get me started,” Ian says, face in his hands. “We got enough to deal with.”

Fiona laughs, a sharp bark and slumps in her seat. “That’s the motto of my life.”

***  
Ian knows he was hasty. He knows that it’s the right thing to apologize and beg for Mickey to take him back.

But his pride pushes at him, sinks like a rock in his stomach. He sits on his front porch, staring in the direction of the Milkovich house. He’d turned his phone off on the L and he turns it back on. 

He watches the screen as it flickers back on, as the calls and texts roll in. He has four calls from Mickey. One text from Mandy. 

He opens Mandy’s first. 

_Go suck a fuck._

He considers responding with the next part of the quote but settles for asking her if Mickey is home. 

_yes_ , is the simple response and he sticks his phone in his pocket. 

Ian tries to psych himself up, wills himself to just stand up and walk over to Mickey. But at the same time, he just wants Mickey to be with him. To come fight. To look for him. He tries not to feel abandoned, he knows Mickey doesn’t owe him anything. 

Ian thinks about how many times he’s been on this porch, mooning over Mickey. When he’d come home from his whirlwind trip with Monica he’d been on the verge of collapsing. 

He’d managed a text to Mickey and his boy had come sprinting around the corner, stayed trapped on the sidewalk just outside the gate. 

He’d looked at Ian like he didn’t believe he was real, like he was something precious. Ian had felt the tears well up, distant and strange like he was feeling them on someone else’s body. 

“Ian,” Mickey had simply said. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Ian had answered and Mickey stayed poised, just outside the gate. He distantly noted the fear, the worry, on Mickey’s face and that had spurned him to stand. He’d made his way down the steps, moving through the molasses of his mind and then Mickey had moved through the gate. He’d surged to meet him, supporting Ian easily as his legs trembled beneath him.

“Jesus, red,” Mickey had said against his neck. “I didn’t realize how fuckin’ thin you are.”

“Take me home,” Ian had managed to say and Mickey had nodded against him. 

“I’m makin’ you a goddamn Hot Pocket,” Mickey had said and hefted Ian up so his arm was over Mickey’s neck. “And you’re gonna eat the damn thing.”

And he had taken him home. Nursed him through the depressive episode and life had kept on chugging.

And now, here he sits, waiting for the next turn in their relationship. He wills Mickey to come up the block, sneakers pounding on the pavement. But he doesn’t. 

The street lights flicker on and Ian jumps, startled from his thoughts. Mickey isn’t coming to him. He’s going to have to swallow his ego, stand up and walk through the alleys to the Milkovich house. 

He stands then and plods down the steps. He sticks his hands in his pockets and starts down the street. 

The light is on in the living room and Ian can see the tv flicker against the curtain. He forces himself up the steps, urges his hand up to knock on the door. He sucks in a breath and waits for it to open. 

“The fuck are you knocking for?” 

It’s Mandy who opens the door with big, angry eyes and her hair piled in a messy tangle on top of her head.

“I—I didn’t know—,” he starts and she rolls her eyes, scoffs. “I didn’t know if this was still home.”

“You’re beyond moronic,” she snaps. “You don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Mickey’s not going to ever, ever—,” she jabs her fingers in his face with each repetition. “—Ever turn you away. Even if it hurts him.” 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Ian says and Mandy sneers. “I don’t.”

“Then get better. I don’t mean the bipolar. Face your shit. He’s changing to be good enough for you. He’s jumped through the hoops, Ian. It’s your turn,” Mandy’s harsh crust cracks towards the end. She reaches out and grabs his hand. “Come in. Come say sorry.”

Ian doesn’t say anything, just nods. He holds it together until he lays eyes on Mickey. 

He’s in the bedroom, sprawled on his back on the bed. Deb was right, Mickey is drunk. And sad. 

Mickey’s got a hand hanging over the edge of the bed, a bottle of Jim Beam dangling from his fingers, and when Ian comes in the room he sits up. 

“Ian,” Mickey says softly and something tight and crystalline unfurls in Ian’s chest. “You came back.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says and Mickey pulls himself into a sitting position. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

“Come here,” Mickey says, arms open.

Ian goes. 

***

Later, after they’ve laid in the dark with Ian rested on Mickey’s chest, Ian looks up at Mickey’s face. Mickey is awake still, eyes closed but his hands haven’t stopped rubbing up and down Ian’s arm. 

“You love me so much,” Ian says and he watches a smile crack over Mickey’s face. 

“Shaddup,” Mickey says but Ian can tell he’s secretly pleased. 

“You do,” Ian says and he reaches up to trace his fingers over a scar on Mickey’s chest. “You love me so much I feel like I could do anything.”

“Anything but be quiet,” Mickey says and his eyelids flicker open. He gropes for a cigarette, sticks it in his mouth and lights it with one hand, the other hand is still rubbing sweetly over Ian’s back. 

“You know I love you, too?”

“Christ, Ian,” Mickey says and he’s blushing a little now. Ian has the crazy urge to bite into the ruddiness of his cheeks. He swallows against the intrusive thought and turns so his chin is resting on Mickey’s chest. “Yes, I know.”

“Good,” Ian says and reaches up to steal Mickey’s cigarette. He takes a pull off it and holds the smoke in his lung for as long as he can. 

“Your pointy fuckin’ chin is going to puncture my lung,” Mickey says and sits up on his elbow. “I gotta clean a few of my pieces. You do everything you need to do?”

It’s his way of reminding Ian to take his medication without being obvious. Ian takes the gentle prodding, standing and stretching. He’s still wearing his boots and coat so he takes the time to put them in their places by the front door. Mandy’s smoking a joint in the armchair and she arches an eyebrow at him as he passes. 

Mickey comes out of the bedroom a little later with two guns and his cleaning equipment. He sits on the couch and sets to work while Ian pulls down his pill bottles. On second thought, Ian goes and gets his new journal and fills in his afternoon using the format Morgan had laid out for him. 

_Trigger: Fought with mick_  
Early Warning Sign: foggy brain, high emotions, impulsivity   
Stay Well Strategy: shared thoughts with deb. Made a plan to fix it with him 

“What’s that?”

Mandy’s hooking her chin over his arm and her arms twine around his belly. The Milkovich version of talking it out. So many words expressed through a tight squeeze. He puts a hand over hers and tilts his head so it rests on top of hers. Tries to answer her unspoken words alike. 

“New thing my therapist wants to try out,” Ian says and she pulls away to open the fridge. “It’s supposed to help me recognize onsetting episodes.” 

“You need help? If you want,” Mickey calls from the couch. 

“Probably at some point,” Ian says and closes the journal. He takes his medication and goes to sit by Mickey on the couch. He’s got his Beretta stripped and he’s carefully oiling it’s parts. Ian watches his hands for a few moments, then remembers he forgot to eat. He starts to get up but Mandy comes through the doorway with a bowl and a cup. 

“Made chili,” she says simply and sets it on the coffee table in front of him. It looks good and smells better. The cup has grape kool-aid. It makes him smile. 

“Thanks, Mands,” he tells her and she unpauses the tv as she sits in the armchair. 

Neither Milkovich says ‘you’re welcome’ most of the time.

The Milkovich’s talk in code almost exclusively, hip checks and noogies. They pass cigarettes with ease, share soda cans without thought, bring home prizes in the form of beef jerky or twinkies. It’s a language cultivated in fear, quiet apologies and support seeped into the home under the wrathful eye of Terry. Ian tries to become fluent but, in the Gallagher house, love is yelled and shown at every turn. 

Ian keeps fighting the good fight. He can’t help the smile that cracks his face as he digs into the chili. Mandy’s written her love in the American cheese crumbles on top and the cup she knows Ian favors. There’s a special warmth in it, in something hard won. 

He vows not to throw it away as easily next time.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.adumbtree.tumblr.com/). I’m marking this as complete. The next story arc will be added as a sequel. It will be Mickey-centric.


End file.
